With the Flow
by CottageGhost
Summary: Streamofconsciousness, sensory musings from the Captain's POV.


**_With the Flow_**

            She's humming again.

            I don't think she even realizes how much she does it. She has a truly pleasant voice, actually, quite soothing. She also has a definite penchant for show tunes. I caught her singing a few of them, and for the most part found them too frivolous for my taste. Fortunately, she prefers to hum them to herself while she works, or while she putters around in her flowerbed. _Especially_ while she putters around in her flowerbed.

            She also hums to her children when they wake up in the middle of the night, frightened by a bad dream. When that happens, she tends to hum older songs, songs even I am familiar with. And every once in a while, she'll hum a few bars from a classical piece. From what I've heard, she seems rather partial to Bach.

            That brings back memories of another feminine voice, also singing. Vanessa? No, it doesn't sound like her. My mother, perhaps. Ah yes. An old lullaby from the Emerald Isle, in the faeries' tongue, too. Strange how her face has all but vanished from my memory, but her voice sounds as clear as if she were standing in the next room.

            She would be the first to be surprised by that, considering how hard I fell for that harshest of mistresses – the sea, whose siren call was stronger than land, stronger than blood – stronger than life. I can still hear her, beckoning to me, sometimes with a roar as she breaks upon the rocks at land's end, sometimes with an insistent murmur as she reaches greedily for my feet as I walk on the beach at night. But I can no longer heed her call.

            Oh, how I miss the sound of good, solid oak cutting through water so blue you could mistake it for the sky! And what of the song of the wind in the rigging – sometimes soothing, sometimes frightening, but always welcome, because it meant you had a certain control over your destiny. No, what was to be feared most at sea was the absence of sound – the doldrums, days upon days of silence and stillness that could weigh so heavily on a man's mind that it eventually crushed the sanity out of him. I've seen it happen often enough to know I would rather endure a raging storm than finding myself becalmed.

            One sound at sea I never missed is cannon fire, a sound that brought with it a most morbid chorus: splintering wood, tearing canvas, the moans of the injured and the dying. Those sounds I remember only too well; they echo still in my mind, cutting in their sharpness. And much as I wish I could forget them, I cannot: such is my state that thought is more real than the world I left behind. They shall remain branded on my soul forever.

            She's laughing, now. She has an impish laugh, highly communicative – so communicative, in fact, that I often find myself caught up in it. She has passed it on to her children, especially the girl. It is a sound to gladden the heart, the three of them laughing to high heaven as they fall in a heap after racing each other down the beach, or panting for breath and wiping the tears from their eyes after listening to one of the housekeeper's most outrageous stories.

            She cries herself to sleep, sometimes. There's another sound I don't care for: her sobs, wracking her small frame, tearing at my ancient heart and soul. Oh, hers is a strong spirit. But occasionally, it buckles under the weight of the world. When that happens, a little bit of that spirit seeps out through her eyes, a cleansing balm to her wounded soul, until the river of her pain runs dry. Eventually, her breathing evens out and she dreams, of azure skies and gentle breezes, and she lets out the contented sigh of a child. That sound I can never tire of.

            There she goes, humming again.

********************************

            Hmmm. The house smells wonderful! The aromas of preserves and cinnamon rolls float languorously on the still air, wafting slowly up the stairs to the upper level, mixing in with the more pungent odour of topsoil and dried leaves coming through the open French doors.

            Ah, fall.

            I always looked forward to that time of year: it meant hours spent tumbling in mountains of dead leaves or the last piles of hay, filling our lungs with the cooler, changing air, and most importantly – drooling at the thought of the upcoming Thanksgiving feast.

            My parents were poor, and the aunt who raised me after they died was not much better off. But they all outdid themselves when that time came; I distinctly remember the smell of turkey, squash covered in butter and brown sugar, cranberries and potatoes, and gravy thick enough to stick your fork into. I also remember the smell of pine nuts and chestnuts, mulled cider and, if we were very fortunate, hot chocolate.

            The log snapping happily away in the hearth reminds me of how my father – and later, my aunt – would go out of their way to use pinewood logs on that special night, so the slightly spicy smell of the wood could fill the house, making it that much more warm and welcome.

            Just like Gull Cottage now. The air has been thick with smells all week in preparation for the feast: tomatoes, pickles, beets, blueberry and strawberry jam, pumpkin pie – ahhh!

            Yet, the one smell that stands out through all of this is hers. No matter how many aromas commingle in the house, her perfume, however discreet, lingers in every room she has been in, to the point that when she is gone for a few days, it feels as if something is missing. The house feels listless – empty. Strange, how a smell so light can permeate the air so!

            She has been away for the last two days.

            It's a bit like the merest hint of rain or snow on the wind. My friends used to laugh and roll their eyes when I told them I smelled water on the breeze. I let them laugh; but I knew. Sure enough, before the day was out, the sun would turn white and fuzzy, the sky would go from blue to slate grey, and the wind would suddenly turn bitter and wet. Before long, big, fat droplets would land on their heads with a splash, sending them running for cover, while I turned my face to the rain and the wind, breathing in deep the smell I imagined must be coming from the open sea.

            But wait –

            She is back. Finally.

********************************

            I watch as the bluish smoke swirls lazily toward the sky, faintly illuminated by the light of the moon.

            Some would say it gave it a "ghostly" glow.

            I must admit, she has very good tastes in cigars – especially considering she has never smoked one. I close my eyes, savouring the taste: earthy, slightly chocolaty, a hint of spice on my tongue as I exhale, another swirl of blue smoke making its leisurely way to the stars.

            I think she's finally getting used to the taste of Madeira. Like port, it is something of an acquired taste. I remember the first time I ever had it: I was nineteen, standing a little nervously in my captain's cabin, watching as he poured two glasses of the deep ruby liquid, then put one in my hand. I had outdone myself during an engagement and he had invited me over to toast me in a congratulatory drink. As the first sip touched my tongue, I nearly choked at its fiery bite.

            Much as she did, as I recall.

            I think champagne is more to her liking. I never really took to the stuff, perhaps because I rarely got to taste the real thing. Then again, I was never one to drink excessively – well, not often, anyway. And I always discouraged drunkenness in my men; a header into the sea usually saw to that quite nicely. Too many lives depended on quick thinking and sharp reflexes to be put stupidly at risk by someone who insisted on not seeing the bottom of his glass.

            No, give me tea any day. There's nothing like a good mug of hot tea on a cold day, to warm the belly as well as the soul. Tea's a good drink; keeps you going.

            I don't think I've ever seen anyone like coffee the way she does. No, that's not right. She doesn't like coffee – she worships it. I am fairly sure she considers it the food of the gods. I swear the way she's going, she'll drink every plantation known to man completely dry.

            A small enough price to pay, I suppose, for being treated to the look of pure bliss that lights up her face after her first cup of the day.

            The children, for their part, could probably keep the milkman in business all on their own. They would have been in milk heaven, had they lived in my time: the neighbour would come by the house every other day and leave a few buckets of it, freshly drawn, on my aunt's doorstep. Oh, the taste of fresh milk, still faintly warm, a thick coat of cream floating on it! When her joints hurt too much, she would make me work the butter churn before we lost the rest of the milk. I remember once, she tried to make ice cream with it. To say it was a failed experiment would be charitable. It made no difference to me, however; I ate it anyway.

            Hmmm. I think I'll go see if there are any of Martha's cookies left.

********************************

            The stars are everywhere. I've always loved this view from the widow's walk at night: the midnight blue bowl of the sky, filled with pinpricks of white, and the ink black expanse of the bay at the bottom edge of it – where sea meets sky, as they say.

            There's no moon out, tonight. Pity; she loves to stand on the balcony, her cheek against the wheel, to gaze at the moon. She has no idea how beautiful she looks by moonlight: her hair shines like spun gold, her skin turns milky white, and her green eyes take on a silvery glow. She's like a figurehead, casting a calming glance on the raging sea.

            The view of the night sky from the crow's nest was a sight to behold: away from land, away from the lanterns illuminating the deck, the stars were clustered so close together that it was difficult to pick out the patterns of the most familiar constellations. I often had to resist the temptation to reach up and try to scoop them in my hands.

            The sight of land after a long voyage was also a sight to behold. To see the greens and yellows of tended fields, the browns and greys of craggy cliffs, and the white specks of houses after seeing nothing but water for the longest time – it is a sight that has put a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye more than once.

            But not always out of joy.

            She seems happy, now. But she wasn't always. I remember watching her sleep those first few nights after she moved into Gull Cottage. I remember the dark circles under her eyes and her tear-stained cheeks. Her skin had lost its glow, and so had her eyes. And I couldn't help but wonder at the time what could have put such a damper on the fire I had glimpsed that first time we met. Oh, mourning had something to do with it, to be sure. But I would lay long odds that it wasn't all of it.

            There she is, standing by the wheel, looking up at the stars as she works a crick out of her neck. She's been working late, these past few days. But she seems content, if the satisfied smile on her face is any indication. It is the look of one proud of a job well done. A look I'm always happy to see.

            She's looking towards me. I'm not visible to her, yet she seems to know exactly where I am, at all times. It is a talent I find both unnerving and heart-warming. Her smile widens as she beckons to me with a toss of her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling charmingly. Obediently, I appear by her side, drinking deeply of her eyes before we both turn, of one accord, toward the midnight blue bowl of the sky and the ink black expanse of the bay at the bottom edge of it.

            Where sea meets sky.

********************************

            The wind seems stiff this morning. I wish I could still feel its push and tug. I remember standing up here, over a century ago, marvelling at how much it felt like the deck of my own ship when the wind blew strong. What I told that Philadelphia quack was true: there is a lot of sway in these old timbers, especially in a stout wind.

            Sometimes, when I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough, I feel like I can almost recapture the feeling of touching and being touched. Let's see if I can… Ah, yes. The delicate caress of the warming breeze in spring; the welcome coolness of it in summer; its tang in the fall; and the sharpness of its bite in winter. Yet, it is as nothing as the wind at sea. It is said that the peoples of the Arctic have several names for the different kinds of snow they encounter; heaven knows, the same should be true for the wind at sea. It is ever-present, even in its absence – a tangible entity that can dole out destruction and salvation in equal measure.

            Tangible – something that, for all its elusiveness, the wind is and I am not.

            I miss the feel of the tug of war between wind and water, travelling up the tiller and down the masts, all the way to each spindle of the wheel, drawing me into a contest of wills as old as the world itself. It is a contest that makes one feel alive like nothing else in this life.

            What did it feel like to bury my hands in the living earth, digging into it to prepare a home for my monkey-puzzle tree? Hmmm, that is more difficult to recall. Yes – the warm, wet soil heavy in my hands, its pungent smell heady. The toughness of the roots, the coolness of the water dripping through my fingers, the grittiness of the dirt lodged under my fingernails. Funny; it seems easier to recollect when I visualize her puttering about in her own flowerbed.

            It is far easier to recall the roughness of the footropes under my bare feet, the heaviness of the canvas on my knees, or the sting of the herringbone needle as it pierced my fingers, drawing blood. Touch could make the difference between life and death at sea; when you came under attack under cover of darkness or found yourself in the middle of a storm in the dead of night, it was often all you could rely on to make the ship secure, just as a sure touch at the wheel meant the difference between shipwreck and a successful voyage.

            There's a petal from one of her pansies, lying on the rail. It looks soft, like velvet – the way I imagine her skin feels. I watch as my fingers curl angrily around it, frustration making my thoughts sizzle and jump. Mortals would kill to enjoy the powers I have, but they have no idea of the limitations of such powers. For while I can enjoy the strains of a piano concerto or the seagull's cry, the aroma of fresh-baked cookies or the smell of rain on the breeze, the tang of a good wine or the smoky aftertaste of a cigar, the glimmer of sunrise or the moonlight on the waters of the bay –

            I am utterly incapable of simply reaching out to caress the cheek of the woman I love.

            I force my fingers to open, then moving to the railing, I bring my palm near my lips, blowing on the petal to send it flying gently to the ground, my anger following it down on its slow descent.

            I may not be able to touch her; but I have touched her heart and her soul.

            And in the end – and thereafter – that's all that matters.


End file.
